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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838502">make it two</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/moldful/pseuds/moldful'>moldful</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>SCP Foundation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Gore, Character Study, Gen, Masochism, Masturbation, Narcissism, Necrophilia, Suicide, i also haven't touched SCP canon since 2019 so expect discrepancies, i don't like how other people write Bright so i just made him worse, it's not sad. it's really not., sort of not really necro. he's just gross.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:54:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,368</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/moldful/pseuds/moldful</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Bright wasn’t one to miss people.</p><p>Maybe except for the people he used to be.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>make it two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Staring in the eyes of death has gotten less impressive over the years, he had to admit. A bullet doesn’t exactly hit the same after the 37th time, even if it has ridden him with chronic, burning pain in his shoulders at this point. The aim’s always off.<br/><br/>Alas. Even if he had the ridges and the subtle yet chilling bone structure of the grim reaper’s face memorized by now, it was his own lifeless facade that intrigued him the most.<br/><br/>Intrigued, not frightened.<br/><br/>Dr. Jack Bright wasn’t sure if he could process fear at this point.<br/><br/>It’s not every day that you get to see your own corpse, cold on the slab of the state of the art foundation morgue, half-heartedly covered with a pristine white sheet. It’s not like he hasn’t had that pleasure before, he’s seen his lifeless past bodies lay, often mangled or mauled or dismembered, guts galore.<br/><br/>Nothing he hasn’t seen on Reddit 50/50 before, to be honest.<br/><br/>The smell usually got to him more. That thick, lingering metallic and acidic scent that seemed to follow him around at this point, as if it somehow nestled itself in the fibers of his cursed being. The bright notes of bile always seemed to outweigh the blood, as if he was some bulimic model with bad hygiene. Touche.<br/><br/>This time around, however, there was no smell to be found. Just a cold, untouched corpse, cleaned up by someone for later tests, laid out in the ventilated room. Bright stood there, a respectful enough distance to dismiss his predatory staring as simple narcissistic admiration. Not that there was anyone else in the room to judge his gaze or the slender hands that twitched inside of his pockets as he observed his freshly ex-body, inch by inch.<br/><br/>It was a young woman, early thirties at best. You could say a lot about Bright, but you couldn’t deny his good taste when it came to picking hosts. She had a slender yet toned frame. Average height, straight golden hair that normally reached down to her mid-back, now tied off in a sleek ponytail to fully uncover her pale face, eyes wide open and lightless, chapped lips left slightly parted, as if she had just taken her final breath. Laying so perfectly still, flat on her back like a peaceful river stone, undisturbed.<br/><br/>Undisturbed until Jack’s hands found their way to her cheek. Cradling it, tender enough to seem uncharacteristic for the director, gazing down at the blonde’s cold features.<br/><br/><em> A shame, </em> he thought to himself as his hand slowly traveled down, lifting the sheet gently to assess the damages. All he found was a clean gunshot wound right below the perfect rib cage. He’s been inside her for three weeks, and the hilarity of that figure of speech never ceases to make him smirk under his breath.<br/><br/>Aside from the wound, there was her body, of course. At a slightly awkward angle, sure, but there wasn’t much complaint from the doctor as his hand slid down, passing her neck and gently reaching to pick up her arm. He’d touch her tits when he had private access, toying with the barely C cups long enough to make it painfully boring. Besides, where’s the fun in that, now that he cannot feel it himself. Instead, his thumb slid gently over the marks on the girl’s upper arms and wrists, tell-tale scars of evenly applied pressure. One of the small unique things Bright liked about this one. The scar tissue proved to be much more sensitive than regular skin, and it was always a shiver-inducing pleasure to run those soft, feminine digits over them. The ones on her arms, her legs, her stomach... Not all of them looked self-induced, which only sweetened the plot for him. Mystery and uncertainty in the sadism of her normotrophics. How fun.<br/><br/>He never cared enough to check <em> why </em> they were there. Before getting the pleasure of being his host, the bitch was some D-class wastrel. The kind incels joke about; a used up skank that does nothing but sits on her genetically perfect ass and sucks unwashed dicks when she’s not on her way to pick up her welfare check. This ain’t 13 Reasons. He couldn’t care less if he tried.<br/><br/>With a sly grin and one last chuckle, he bent down to place a goodbye kiss on her ice-cold lips, his hand reaching back up to tangle into the blonde strands, purposely messing up the neat hairstyle. He’ll let the other researchers draw their own conclusions. Necrophilia certainly wouldn’t be the most outrageous thing he’d be accused of, and if a few askew strands and some saliva on a worthless corpse’s mouth are enough for his coworkers to assume shit, well.<br/><br/>That just goes to show how horribly intolerant they are, doesn’t it?<br/><br/>With a sated sigh, Jack left the morgue, theatrically fixing his coat and winking at the first unfortunate person he passed, producing a disgusted groan that only deepened his twisted grin.<br/><br/>It’s good to be back.<br/><br/>...<br/><em><br/></em> Or is it.<br/><br/>Dr. Bright wasn’t one to miss people, with how his life was structured. What’s the use in missing people if you’ll surely outlive them. What’s the point in ever committing, attaching, clinging onto another, if they’ll end up leaving?<br/><br/>Dr. Bright wasn’t one to miss people.<br/><br/>Maybe except for the people he used to be.<br/><br/>Of course, it’s always been nobody but him. Nothing but his consciously rotting psyche going from room to room, body to body, heart to heart.<br/><br/>His current one was eerily similar to one of his firsts. Tall. Lanky. As ginger as the devil himself. A little thinner - he’s willing to bet this one was a junkie before he got here. He got over the jutting hip bones and protruding ribs after a day or so, and the sunken eyes just fit the original mold. Sure, they were hazel instead of olive, but he could cope with that.<br/><br/>There was something… <em> missing </em> , though.<br/><br/>He’d find himself, at random intervals of the day, with his right hand idling under his own clothes. Roaming over the skin, searching for those bumps he’d gotten so used to touching as his minuscule reward, without a single bit of care about whose eyes might be on him. Alas. There was nothing. Smooth, slightly dry skin under the rough fingertips he was stuck with.<br/><br/>It’s like petting a piece of printer paper, frankly.<br/><br/>He missed the satisfying surprise and the pleasant shiver that slipped through his nerves when he touched that soft, delicate, unnatural growths, pathetic signs of the human body’s worthless attempts at healing the physical signs of mental pain. It didn’t hurt as much when it was just him at his desk, subtly aching for the once-familiar. Nothing really hurt in the bright lights of his site. Everything was in the name of science, no matter how dubious or morally questionable.<br/><br/>...Not that he could credit science for those late nights of staring at his vessel in the mirror, feeling a soft pang of emptiness at the lack of gentle curves and decorative marks over them. Science had nothing to do with the way he gave deep groans of exasperation while desperately trying to rub one out in his darkened, foundation-issued bedroom, only to give up as the impassible threshold of under-stimulation, with nowhere to go but down.<br/><br/><em> Science </em> had little to no input into what he was about to do.<br/><br/>He laughed to himself as he walked into the modest kitchenette, flinging the drawer open and procuring a nice carving knife. Why didn’t he think of this sooner? It’s the first thing he should’ve done, instead of moping over something so easily obtainable. Getting scars is something everyone does eventually, especially if they don't have bodies at their dispense. He pressed the flat surface of the blade to his cheek as he slid back to his bedroom, a questionable amount of pep in his step as he locked the door behind himself. Everything was set up. A mirror, bandages, gauze, tissues. It’s a spontaneous operation, but he deemed himself prepared enough to make some changes to this new host of his.<br/><br/>Pressing the blade’s edge to his thin forearm felt more pleasurable than it should. The cold stainless steel seemed to embrace the doctor’s wrist with its cold aura, threatening to slip with the slightest little twitch of his unreliable muscles. It brought a smile to his face, this familiar shiver he yearned for for a while now, and he had to admit; He looked devilishly handsome, on his spread apart knees in front of his full-length mirror, boxers for modesty and a knife for good times. He let the cold apartment air fill his lungs as he braced himself for an initial, nearly symbolic impact.<br/><br/>Inhale, <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> <em> “Fffuck--” </em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> And exhale. Or, there would be one, if that deep breath hadn’t gotten completely lost in Bright’s lungs. Instead, there was a sudden wash of warmth as blood began to seep down his palm, dark droplets twirling between his fingers before they hit the floor, huddling up in a cozy puddle, almost mistakable for spillage of mulled red wine. He watched in near awe, the way his skin split under the metal, flashing a faint bit of muscle.<br/><br/>It went deeper than he intended.<br/><br/>Good.<br/><br/>Another slash wasn’t nearly as mindless as the first. Just a bit higher, another clean and slick slit made in those seemingly fragile wrists. It bled just the same, and so did the next seven cuts, all nearly symmetrical along the skin. His palm was coated in his own ichor before he even glanced up into the mirror to assess his damages. A bright laugh left his lungs as he went to drag his tongue over the bloodied hand, getting more of the taste he knew so perfectly well. Bitter, metallic, intoxicating, nearly spicy to the touch of his taste buds. Warmer and more comforting than any other substance known to man.<br/><br/>He cleaned the palm of blood for one purpose only. To make room, of course. Without hesitation, he curled his hand directly around the sharpened edge and <em> tugged, </em> an involuntary groan escaping his throat as the searing hurt seeped into the very ends of his nerves, making his head roll back as he let the blade drop to the floor with an echoing ring.<br/><br/>And before that horrible ring had the chance to go away, the split-open palm of Jack’s hand was already squirming its way under his waistband, staining the checkered cotton fabric before it desperately coiled itself around his aching cock. Blood, until it starts to coagulate, is as slick as oil. And Dr. Bright had a feeling that he’d never spend another cent on lubricant.<br/><br/>While his injured hand stroked away shakily and eagerly, the other didn’t even think of resting. The knife was picked back up, starting to carve up his thin, shaking thighs. It was hard to control the pressure with his nondominant hand, all slippery and losing touch with how deep he was actually going, too preoccupied with keeping the pace of his bleeding wrist. And he swore that he nearly saw the face of God itself when the harsh steel gritted against his bone with a near-audible creak. Christ. He really underestimated the thickness of his new skin.<br/><br/>At that very moment, he realized; There was no coming back from this.<br/><br/>Bright swallowed the bile gathered in his mouth as he glanced down at his leg, flesh staring back at him with immeasurable audacity, as if challenging him to tough it out, throw another punch at himself. And he’s not exactly one to say no to a bet. With a pained moan, he slowly slid the weapon out of the massive gaping gash, before promptly stabbing it back into his flesh, gasping as it sunk right above his left hip bone. It slid into his flesh like a hot knife into butter, leaving him dumbfounded for a moment. Sometimes he forgot, despite dying countless times, the bodies never built up any tolerance. <em> Bummer, </em> he thought to himself, as his vision started to blur at the edges, his hands growing clammy and useless.<br/><br/>In his brief moment of blood loss fueled enlightenment, gravity took its course as it knocked the man onto his backside, leaving him with what he roughly estimated were roughly eight more minutes of life. His hands kept growing limp and cold, definitely not helped by the constant jerking motions, his vision slowly deteriorating by the looks of those doubling ceiling lamps. He sighed as if letting go of all the knots and heaviness in his system, somewhat relieved as he felt his finish steadily approach.<br/><br/><em> Eight minutes? </em><br/><br/>He thought, or maybe even said to himself. Not that he could feel his lips at this point. The free, unharmed hand tightened around the carving knife’s handle, slowly pulling it out of the ginger’s torso.<br/><br/><em> Make it two. </em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> The pure masochistic ecstasy that blurred Jack’s senses as he pierced his throat with the now-warm blade was indescribable. That familiar, disgusting, intoxicating taste of his own blood was all that was left in his system, besides the mind-splitting pain and the overwhelming arousal. His back hit the floor with a deaf, wet thud, his shoulder blades gnashing with the ichor-covered flooring. If he cared enough, he’d stuff some Icarus reference in there, something about having flown too close to the sun in pursuit of joy or, whatever, who would bother memorizing something so stupid and irrelevant to his field of work.<br/><br/>Maybe these aren’t the last thoughts he should be having before having quite literally the most intense climax of his eventful life.<br/><br/>Maybe these aren’t the last thoughts he should be having before dying, self-inflicted for what’s surprisingly the very first time.<br/><br/>So instead, he forced a bitter smile as he forced his nearly limp tongue to lap over his cum-slicked hand, really only making the mess worse by smearing. He let out one final breath of this sorry body, letting the muscles finally relax, loosen up, and thought;<br/><br/><em> I pity whoever the fuck finds me first. </em> <em><br/></em><br/><br/><em><br/></em><br/><br/></p>
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